


Helping Hands

by helvel



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, what's the tent equivalent of a sock on the doorknob?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helvel/pseuds/helvel
Summary: “You said,” John starts, determinedly stubborn despite the nerves making his voice shake, “You said I could pull you off again, if I- if I stopped being so annoying, is what you said.”Arthur snorts. “So? You ain’t stopped yet.”





	Helping Hands

**Author's Note:**

> One day I'll return to writing something other than smut...

“Arthur, I-“

John trails off abruptly. Arthur glances over his shoulder at him. Whatever John was about to say is gone. His mouth hangs open in shock and a blotchy flush creeps up his neck. It’s no wonder why. Where he’s standing in the tent’s entrance, John must have a clear view of the two fingers Arthur’s got shoved up his own asshole.

“Little busy here,” Arthur grunts.

“ _Uh,_ ” is all John manages to get out. He’s frozen in place, wavering outside the tent like a cat that can’t decide if it wants to go in or out. Damned if Arthur is going to scramble to cover himself up after he just spent ten minutes easing spit-slick fingers inside himself, but he doesn’t need half the camp seeing him bare-assed with his dick hard.

“For God’s sake – close that up!” he snaps, waving his free hand at John.

John takes a step forward, tent flap closing behind him. That ain’t what Arthur meant. John should be on the  _other_  side of the flap, instead of bothering Arthur when all he wants to do is finish getting off and go to sleep. It ain’t ever that easy with John, though. Arthur turns on the cot to get a better look at him. The movement makes his fingers shift inside him, and after biting back a moan from the sudden surge of pleasure, Arthur asks, “What the hell d’you want, anyway?”

Flickering lantern light illuminates the bob of John’s throat as he swallows. “Got what you wanted from town,” he says. He reaches into his jacket to draw out a small jar. Arthur recognizes it at once – petroleum jelly – and he curses.

“You couldn’t of dropped that off ten minutes ago?” He still hesitates to take his fingers out of himself, not when he’d gone through the trouble of getting them in there, but they slide out with only a bit of discomfort from the now-dry spit. “Give it here.”

He reaches for the jar. John pulls it away.

“ _Marston,_ ” Arthur warns, because he’s in no mood for this kind of bullshit.

“You said,” John starts, determinedly stubborn despite the nerves making his voice shake, “You said I could pull you off again, if I- if I stopped being so annoying, is what you said.”

Arthur snorts. “So? You ain’t stopped yet.”

“I got the petroleum jelly, just like you asked.”

“Asked you to pick me up a pack of smokes, too.”

John stuffs a hand back into his jacket, until he finds the cigarettes to offer to Arthur. Arthur takes them. Two cigarettes are missing from the box – probably smoked on the way back from town. Arthur lets out a sigh.

“Alright,” he says, “c’mere.”

John moves forward like a puppet on strings. He sits at the edge of the cot, mouth hanging open again as he watches Arthur gingerly turn over onto his back, hard cock coming into view.

Arthur’s under no delusions that it’s attraction that has John’s eyes on him at all hours of the day. Everything comes easy to John, or gets handed to him, and if Arthur were to sing his praises half as much as Dutch does, there’s no chance John would be here. The kid thinks he’s got something to prove, got to find some way to impress Arthur. When that fails, he begs for attention, any way he can get it. Blurted offers to pull Arthur off, touch his cock, suck him – and sometimes, Arthur gives in.

And sometimes, Arthur gets his cock grabbed like a diamond necklace from a jeweller’s case in the middle of a heist.

“ _Jesus,_ ” he complains, half-twisting out of John’s grip. “Buy a feller dinner first.”

John grunts out something that might be an apology, but doesn’t let go, and the just-right squeeze that follows absolutely does not make Arthur’s toes curl. John strokes up to slide his forefinger over the head and through the gathering fluid, then back down to grip the base.

He’s good at this, but of course he is. Ain’t too long ago that Arthur had to put up with him pulling off five times a day when they used to share a tent. Now, he gets to reap the rewards - long, firm strokes just the way he likes it, coupled with the blessed silence that comes when John focuses his three brain cells on something.

It’s nice being touched, even if it’s John doing it, and Arthur closes his eyes as he pushes up his hips. Would be nicer with a bit more than precome to ease the slide of John’s hand. Arthur feels around for the jar of petroleum jelly. Then a dry finger slides between his ass cheeks.

“Fuckin- Marston-“ Arthur snaps, thighs squeezing shut around John’s hand before it can get any further.

“I can do it!” John argues, too loud, because he thinks Arthur is backing out. “I can put my fingers in-“

“ _Shh!_ ” Arthur hisses. Goddamn, John really is dumber than a bag of bricks. Arthur glares at him for a moment, wondering how this greasy brat manages to push his luck so much. His hand is still trapped between Arthur’s legs, and Arthur grabs him by the wrist.

John’s nails are short, but his hands are filthy. If they’re really going to do this…

“Get yourself cleaned up,” Arthur says, with a shove in the direction of the water basin.

The dirt is gone from John’s hands when he returns, scrubbed out from the cracks of his knuckles and the beds of his nails. It’s not the first time Arthur has noticed how long and boney his fingers are, but it’s the first time he’s thought about them in this context. Maybe he doesn’t entirely regret agreeing to let John stay.

Arthur picks up the petroleum jelly from where it fell into the blanket and hands it to John. It’s strangely pleasing to see that John’s hands are shaking.

“You ever done this before?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah,” John says immediately. “… With a woman,” he clarifies. Arthur raises an eyebrow and John’s face furrows into a scowl. “Well. Not in her ass.”

“So you’re saying you  _ain’t_  done it before.”

The flush over John’s cheeks deepens. “Can’t be that hard,” he protests, like he actually knows, “Just- just tell me what to do.”

Arthur could get drunk on listening to the kid admit he doesn’t know how to do something, but as much as Arthur loves riling him up, he’d be genuinely disappointed if John stormed off now. He takes John’s hand and folds his fingers down except for two. “Just like that,” he says, and helps to coat them with the jelly.

John gives an experimental thrust through the air, because he’s got as much patience as a feral cat backed into a corner. Looks like one too, all wide eyes and lank hair. His eyes only grow wider as Arthur lays back and pulls up a leg.

“Just… go right in?” John asks, hesitant now. Arthur doesn’t give John an answer – just a sharp grin that says he’s waiting.

Warm fingertips press against his asshole. He’s already relaxed and pliant from fingering himself, so John’s fingers slide in easy with the first hesitant push, eased by the petroleum jelly. They go deeper than he’s able to reach by himself, and John pumps into him a few times. Arthur shivers at the sensation.

“Up a bit,” he says, a little breathless.

John adjusts the angle of his hand, until his fingers push in just  _there_ , and Arthur lets out a grunt. John wriggles his fingers. Arthur has to fight to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head.

Some part of him should probably feel annoyed that this comes as easy to John as everything else does, but it feels like shooting stars are firing through his veins with the way John’s fingers find just the right way to slide into him and make his dick leak over his belly. John takes it in hand again, and Arthur really can’t hold back the low moan that slips out of his chest.

“That feel good?” John asks, too damn full of himself.

Flushed skin, straining cock, desperate breaths Arthur isn’t even trying to keep quiet – and John’s asking something as stupid as if it feels good? John just needs to shut up, and let Arthur lose himself in the sensation of-

Of a third finger pushing against his asshole-

“ _D-don’t,_ ” Arthur warns, clenching up, but he’s stretched enough that the fingertip slides into him with ease.

It’s good, despite John’s shit-eating grin as he watches Arthur’s back arch off the cot, and Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, hands grabbing at whatever’s in reach. He catches John’s thigh, bony and burning hot through his trousers, and John’s low groan echoes Arthur’s own.

He’s at that soaring plateau just before tipping over the edge, body tight and trembling and completely alight. Then it crashes over him like a dam breaking as he comes. His voice is a far off sound, groaning as John strokes him through it.

The world goes white. It comes back to him, soft, like sunlight through a gauzy curtain. Then everything becomes  _too much too much_  and Arthur has to shove at John’s arm to stop his still-pumping fingers from driving Arthur into over-stimulation.

“Fuck,” John breathes in awe.

Arthur huffs out a little laugh. “Shut up.”

He shoves at John’s chest, pushing him back so Arthur can swing his legs over the edge of the cot. The pack of cigarettes is tangled among the blanket, and Arthur retrieves one. His matches are in his jacket on the ground. Arthur bends to pat through the pockets, not even minding that John’s got a front-row view of his stretched, slick asshole, for the second time that evening.

It’s strange being looked at. Mary – hell, Arthur isn’t sure if she ever thought he was attractive in the time they were together. Eliza, good woman that she is, knows he ain’t much to look at. John’s not here for his looks, either, but that desperate desire to please has his eyes trained on Arthur so intently, has his cock straining against the front of his trousers, and for once Arthur doesn’t feel so wretched to be seen.

He lights a cigarette to hide his smile. “Take care of yourself if you want,” he says to John over his shoulder.

Arthur ignores the frantic rustling as John fumbles himself out of his trousers, turning his attention to cleaning himself up in the wash basin. Turns out he can shoot off all the way up to his chest when he’s being finger-fucked just right. As he wipes himself with a damp rag, he half watches the reflection in the sheen of the water pitcher, nothing more than a dark shape moving in short, jerky movements that match the heavy panting behind him.

It’s only when John’s ragged breaths culminate in a gasp that Arthur deems to turn around. John’s hand and cock are a mess of smeared come, his face is flushed, and he looks dopey as all Hell. It’s kind of cute, almost. Arthur tosses the damp rag at him to clean up.

“I’m turning in for the night now,” Arthur says.

“… ‘kay,” John says.

“… that means get out, Marston.”

John blinks for a moment, then hurriedly wipes himself down and gets to his feet on shaky legs. Their scant height difference is non-existent as they stoop inside the tent. John’s eyes dart down to Arthur’s mouth. He’s got that look of intent desperation he always gets when he wants something from Arthur, though Arthur has no idea what’s left right now – a word of praise, a pat on the back, a scratch behind the ears…

Arthur’s feeling indulgent, and he takes the cigarette from between his lips to put it between John’s own.

“Thanks,” he says, as an afterthought. He turns John by the shoulders and gives him a firm shove out through the tent flap, until next time.


End file.
